Mélange
by Firebirdie
Summary: A collection of drabbles set throughout history and starring a multitude of nations, intended to enlighten, edify, and otherwise entertain. Chapter 3–The Prince, in which Prussia is not impressed by his future king.
1. Hold the Line: 1241

**Mélange**

Here there be drabbles. I may expand on some of them later, but for now, enjoy the ride. First up is . . .**  
**

**Chapter 1**

**Hold the Line: 1241  
**

**Notes:** Heinrich = HRE. Bernard = Knights Templar. Mongolian Empire = largest contiguous empire the world has ever seen, larger even than Rome. They beat six kinds of crap out of China, Eastern Europe, the Caliphate . . . The rest of the West was spared mostly because of a few lucky coincidences.

* * *

Feliks is the first to wake up, and when he does, he wishes he hadn't, because he becomes aware of the arrows sticking out of his back. He feels like a porcupine. And that isn't much fun at all.

He grits his teeth and clambers to his feet, and roots around for a few minutes in the stinking field of corpses for a stick or something. He finds a spear, way taller than he is, but it'll work as extra support. He hobbles away. His armor is heavy, and his face is streaked with blood.

He finds himself standing–okay, slumping–over the prone body of a miniature Templar, with curly brown hair and wide grey eyes that stare right through him. He kneels down, ignoring the pain in his back. He pokes the Templar in the cheek. "Bernard?"

Nothing.

"Bernard, you gotta wake up now."

Blink–and Bernard draws in a choked breath. He's pale as the bodies surrounding them, and he spits blood as he props himself up on his elbows and manages to focus on Feliks. "W-we lost?"

"Yeah."

Bernard spits again, coughs miserably. Then his eyebrows go up. "Feliks, you're–"

"Eh, I'm okay," he says.

"Turn around!" Bernard orders, motioning with one hand. Feliks obliges with a put-upon sigh, and then yelps as the other boy tears one of the arrows out, heedless of the damage it does as it exits.

"What are you doing?" Feliks demands.

"You'll heal," Bernard grunts. _Yank._ Feliks bites back another cry of pain.

"Did you, like, see what happened to Gilbert and Heinrich?"

"No."

"Then–_ow!_–I'm gonna go looking, okay?"

Bernard removes the last arrow and spins him around so they're facing each other. The taller boy looks very serious and very solemn and very, very scared. "What about . . . him?"

"I'll deal. C'mon." Feliks wobbles a bit as he steps over a Mongol horse's snapped neck, and then stumps forward, scanning the ground for familiar faces. There are some. Too many. Polish soldiers and knights. All dead. All of them. _Dead._

They find Gilbert and Heinrich under another horse, this one European. It looks like Heinrich was in the way as it fell, and Gilbert either ran into him or tried to push him out of the way or something, so they wound up falling together and getting squashed together, and Heinrich's legs are at really awkward angles and one of Gilbert's arms is bent backwards.

Bernard circles to the other side of the horse, biting his hand to hold back a cough. "Grab one of them and pull," he says, taking the saddle and tugging on it. He's weaker than usual–he isn't quite a nation anyway, and he took quite a beating yesterday, so it takes him a minute to get his feet under him and the leverage just right, but after that the horse moves enough for Feliks to drag Heinrich out from under. Bernard lets go to catch his breath, and it flops back onto Gilbert. There's a nasty cracking sound that probably isn't the horse. They repeat the process, and Feliks stumbles backward with Gilbert in tow, and falls over on his backside and wheezes for a few minutes.

"Well, that was fun," he says.

There's a groan from Heinrich. He opens his eyes and stares up at Bernard, who peers down at him, and he shakes his head. "We failed," he croaks.

"Yes," Bernard says dully.

Heinrich glances at Feliks. "We're going to die," he says.

"Nuh-uh," Feliks says fiercely. "No way we're letting that happen, m'kay? You can be all weepy and depressed if you want, but, like, count me out."

"How can you–"

"Have a little faith!" he cajoles, with more enthusiasm than he really feels. They lost. But he isn't going to panic. Nope. Not gonna happen.

Gilbert's coming to, groaning. He hisses in a choked shallow breath and clutches at his arm–and his ribs–and glares at Feliks as if it was his fault he got squashed. But all he says is "Goddammit."

"Language," Heinrich says, because that's what he's expected to say.

"I can swear if I want to," Gilbert grumbles. "Not like it's gonna matter for long. 'Cause we are _dead._"

Green, red, blue, grey eyes flicker in the dark. It smells like fear and like death. Filth, blood, the beginnings of rot. And that urge to panic is rising, gibbering. Because Sadiq and Gupta and Ivan were _destroyed_ by all this–they stuffed the caliphate into a _sack_ and had horses _trample_ him until he was so much bloody pulp and that was them being _nice_ . . .

No. Panicking is stupid and it won't save them.

Feliks sees the others fighting the same battle, and while at any other time he'd gladly chuck at least Gilbert under a wagon given the chance, he's unwilling to let them lose it. Not now. "Okay, guys. Let's, like, chill out. These heathens don't have anything on us."

"Look around," Bernard says wearily. Before Feliks can come up with a reply, he adds, thoughtfully, "Although this isn't the end. We are not the gateway to all Christendom. That . . . honor falls to Vienna."

"Roderich," Gilbert says.

"I heard Elizabeta was gonna try and head these guys off before they get there," Feliks puts in, unsure just where the conversation is going. He injects a little confidence into his tone. "She'll do fine."

". . . I said that yesterday, about us," Heinrich says. He shifts his legs and winces in pain.

Feliks senses a downward spiral in the mood. He slings an arm around Heinrich's shoulders and smiles, despite the fact that it hurts a _lot_ and it can't be too pleasant for Heinrich either. "Scared?" he asks. "Everyone's scared, right? But we've totally got God on our side. We'll pull through."

"Have a little faith?" Bernard mumbles.

"Like, _yeah._"

There's silence. Well, not quite silence–a few of the wounded are still moaning, in the distance a horse is screaming, and there's a light breeze sighing, but it's close enough. A hush, a lull, as if the world is drawing breath. Bernard speaks then, voice low and strong and steady. "Our Father, who art in Heaven," he begins, "hallowed be thy Name."

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," Heinrich says softly. Their voices make a kind of harmony, a good kind, and Feliks joins in as they continue, "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us . . ."

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil," Gilbert murmurs with them.

"For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.

"Amen."

And though the Hungarians may fall, perhaps, _maybe_ . . . If the khan dies in a few days, if the Mongols retreat at last, if the walls of Vienna hold . . .

The walls must hold.


	2. Star Wars

Hey, look, a new drabble! Actually, an old drabble, but it was very shiny once I blew the dust off and touched up the paint a little. :) Enjoy.

**Star Wars**

**Notes: **Space is awesome.

* * *

_The not-too-distant future . . ._**  
**

"I hate you so much right now," America said sourly, glaring at his no-longer-frosted bottle of Bud Light. It had started out frosted. Then he took it out of the fridge and kept passing it–_not_ nervously, thank you–from hand to hand as Russia broke the news and gloated. So it got all warm and sweaty from his hands and it wasn't the most pleasant thing to be holding, so he figured he might as well knock it back and get it over with.

Oh, right. Russia was _still_ had a goddamn twinkle in his eyes–he wasn't even smiling, not even the creepy smirky thing he did back last century–he was _twinkling!_ Freaking twinkling. At America. What the hell.

"I do not think you mean that," Russia said.

"Nope," said America, stalking into the living room. He'd been stalking across the ground floor of his house for the past ten minutes, and now he had decided to stop. "I definitely do. I absolutely hate you. Go away." He took a swig, smacked his lips aggressively, set the bottle down on the side table with a thunk, and put his feet up on the green ottoman. He slouched down on the couch and reached for the TV remote.

Russia followed him in and stood in front of the TV, which was tuned to CNN, which was blaring the news that the Russian space program's initial tests of the Akunin engines had–

America changed the channel to Fox, which was blaring the statements of some senator about the new threat to America's longstanding supremacy in space technology. The _New Red Menace,_ he called it. "What?"

"You are funny when you are disappointed."

"Laugh your fat ass off."

Russia blinked. His eyes got a little darker, a little colder, a little pissier. Pissy Russia, he could handle. Not smug Russia. Because smug Russia meant he'd _lost._

Russia said nothing. The senator on Fox said, ". . . be at stake here, and let's not forget their stalling of those so-called disarmament treaties last year. I'm tellin' you, folks, they do not mean us well. If they get out there before we do, we're sunk. It was a bad idea to agree to further reductions in . . ."

The twinkle vanished like a photon across the event horizon of a black hole. The old creepy smirk reappeared. This was familiar, safer ground, sort of. For the definition of "safe" that only really applied to two old superpowers who'd spent way more time hovering over big red buttons than was healthy.

Russia sat down next to him on the sofa.

Shit.

He also stole America's beer, tasted it gingerly, and grimaced. He set it back down. "Alfred. Why do you do this to innocent hops? It is a crime against nature."

"I dunno. Why are you such a creep?"

A breathy sigh tickled his ear. "You didn't let me finish what I was saying, earlier."

"I don't wanna hear it, Ivan. They work. That's just awesome-"

"Would you be interested in a joint program?"

He closed his mouth. He looked at Russia. He frowned. "What's the point? You've already gotten the big stuff done, you and your goddamn Akunin guy–"

"Big stuff? They went from Mars to Neptune in six minutes. They are not ready for anything further than that. And communications are still sub-light. There is plenty of room to improve."

"–pointing at the homes of American families! These guys are dangerous, John, I don't know if we can trust 'em with this kind of technology," said Fox News.

America scowled. "Improve," he repeated.

"Yes. That's what you do. You take what others have done and make it your own." Russia's smile lost its sharp edge. "Your entire system of government is based on the writings and philosophies of stodgy old Europeans. But you were the first to successfully put them into practice, even if that practice is a bit . . . flawed. If you can do it in politics, why not in science?"

"You're trying to flatter me into agreeing. And you're not doing a good job of it. You want my taxpayers' money so you can burn it on those stupid engines–"

Russia _rolled his eyes_ at America. "You," he said, "are acting like a stubborn child. I will let you think it over. My boss will be in contact with yours. _Do svidaniya._" He stood up and walked away, out of the living room, out of the house, closing the door behind him.

America stared glazedly at the TV screen, only snatches of the unfolding dialogue–diatribe–registering in his mind.

". . . Russian scientists . . . threat to security . . . Second Space Race . . . our country . . . what can we do?"

Not because it is easy, but because it is hard.

Because they say _you can't. It'll never work. What do you know, child-nation?_

Because _fuck them._

America threw the remote down and ran to the door. He could just see the flicker of a pale scarf disappearing down the street. "Hey! Ivan!" he shouted. "Ivan, hang on a sec!"

When he caught up to Russia just outside the coffee shop with the blue awning, breathless, Russia didn't say anything. He just smiled. And against his better judgement, America smiled back.


	3. The Prince

**The Prince**

**Notes:** Heartily recommend Christopher Clark's _Iron Kingdom: The Rise and Downfall of Prussia_ for any research monkeys/history nerds out there!

Lions and foxes: Niccolo Machiavelli advised rulers to behave like a lion (bold and assertive) and a fox (cunning and intelligent) when the situation demanded it. (Random Fact: Machiavelli, despite his reputation as the author of _The Prince,_ widely regarded as Ye Olde Dictator's Handbook, was in fact a staunch supporter of the Florentine republic . . . but that's a story for another time.)

King Friedrich Wilhelm I of Prussia was not a nice guy. Regularly beat his son, the future Friedrich II/"Old Fritz," in addition to courtiers with whom he took issue. Very militaristic, though he didn't go to war lightly. Disapproved of his son's interest in poetry, music, and French political writers like Voltaire. Fritz himself was fairly disdainful of all things Prussian, even commenting that he'd prefer to hear a horse neighing than someone singing in German.

Naturally, this would cause friction between himself and his nation's personification . . .

Okay, shutting up now. Enjoy!

* * *

Two weeks had passed since his father had introduced him to Gilbert Beilschmidt, and Fritz had managed to avoid the obnoxious man almost entirely. Just his luck, then, that they ran into each other after his lessons, when he smelled like a horse and wanted nothing more than to sit down and read or write or, even better, get cleaned up.

Beilschmidt skipped back after their collision in the doorway to the second floor hall, recognized him, and grinned. "Well, someone's in a hurry," he drawled.

"Let me pass," Fritz said.

"Nah. We need to talk."

"Do we, now?"

"Yeah, we do. Unless you want the King to get even more pissed off at you than he usually is."

Fritz seethed, but fought down the irritation enough to say, "Could we perhaps have this little _talk_ at a later time?"

"Now's good."

A pause. A long one. And then:

"I don't like you," they said in unison. Beilschmidt snorted, leaning against the doorframe and gesturing for Fritz to elaborate first.

"You," he stated, "are a violent, inelegant, unenlightened, uncouth, mindless suck-up."

"You're a sneaky, pitiful little weasel."

"Then we understand each other," Fritz said coolly.

"Indeed."

"Why does Father want us to become acquainted?"

"He hopes my better traits'll rub off on you."

"Why, then, does he strike you as often as he goes after me?"

"Because I, unlike you, am _honest._ You're just pathetic."

Fritz stared and Beilschmidt's twisted grin widened. "What on Earth is he doing, keeping you around," he muttered.

"I'm a permanent fixture around here," Beilschmidt said airily.

"Well. Don't expect me to be so tolerant–"

"The only thing that'd make me leave is the dissolution of the nation, and I don't see that happening unless you fuck up _really_ badly." His expression provided the addendum: _Granted, I won't be surprised if you do._

Fritz folded his arms and sniffed, then grimaced at the smell of horse. "Are you always an arrogant ass?"

"Are you always an annoying pansy?"

"Define _pansy_."

"Effeminate, music-loving, generally useless," Beilschmidt rattled off. "Want me to continue? I can give examples, although you're climbing to the top of the list."

"Please, save your examples for someone who actually cares," said Fritz. "Besides, all it will prove is that you lack sophistication."

"Ooh, snooty, aren't we?"

"Enlightened."

"Right, you're all anti-Machiavelli or whatever, that's really nice and _naive._ So tell me, my dear Prince, how do you square the reality of politics with your much-trumpeted ideals?"

"The reality," Fritz retorted, "is that heavy-handed tyranny isn't necessary to rule a country."

Beilschmidt blinked. Then he laughed, a sharp shrill cackle. "Yeah, about that. First–your own father. What he's done for this nation. He didn't do it by being polite and shit, he did it by acting like a real king."

"All lion, no fox. The Prussian state is a backwater of–"

"Tell me something, _Fritz,_" Beilschmidt interrupted, lacing the nickname with venom. "Do you think this nation's people care about your fancy politics? Do you think Prussia gives a damn about whatever dribbling moron you've been reading? Because let me tell _you,_ Friedrich, I _don't._"

His expression froze for a split second, as if he'd said too much. Or said it wrong. With the wrong emphasis. Not on _I–_

"Have fun with your _philosophes,_" Beilschmidt growled, turning on his heel and marching away.


End file.
